


Vineyards, Majordomos, and a Meal

by Pyreite



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyreite/pseuds/Pyreite
Summary: Geralt finds himself the new owner of Corvo Bianco.  He's feeling the jitters of being a Witcher with new and unknown responsibilities. Barnabas-Basil Foulty helps him find his feet as he pursues a career as a vintner.





	Vineyards, Majordomos, and a Meal

**Author's Note:**

> Edited with extended and updated scenes. Also I had to have Geralt tease B.B a little. XD.

It was surreal to sit on a bench outside one’s own house, to watch the world, and the people in it pass him by. Labourers were working the fields, servants were sweeping the paths. Even Roach had her own groom mucking out her stable. Geralt was unused to being amidst so much noise. He could hear the bristles of a broom scratching the cobbles.

He could smell the dirt being scoured away by the determined little old lady on his doorstep. He could see Roach nibbling a carrot the groom had whipped out of his pocket. The people of Corvo Bianco were bustling about on whatever tasks his majordomo B.B had set for them. Geralt was overwhelmed by the idea that he had responsibilities. He was Master of the House and in charge of one of the oldest vineyards in Toussaint.

Geralt felt like a fish out of water. He was a Witcher not a vintner. He killed monsters for a living, he didn’t plant grapevines or pull weeds. He knew how to brew potions not make fine wines. For the first time in his life, Geralt of Rivia had no idea what to do.

He sat on a bench on the porch outside the house he owned, staring into space. His eyes were glassy and unfocused as he thought about the pitfalls of running a vineyard. A bad harvest, an infestation of aphids, or a murder of crows gobbling up all the grapes come summer. It was maddening to think that he had to manage a property he knew next to nothing about. He was responsible for B.B, the staff, the house, and the grapevines flowering several fields over.

It’d been simpler when he only had himself and his horse to look after. Now he had a barn-load of people he had to look after too. The idea terrified him. What if he made the wrong choice? The consequences wouldn’t affect just him. 

It’d affect everyone else too.

“Crap”, grumbled Geralt. “What the hell am I doing here?”

“Master Geralt?”

He tensed like a coiled spring, shoulders hunching when a bespectacled gentleman stepped into his shadow. “B.B”, growled Geralt, blushing with embarrassment. He’d been taken by surprise, something unheard of for a Witcher. “Er-Hi”, he replied with a half-hearted smile. It was more of an anxious twist of his lips that had his mouth turning down at the corners. 

Geralt sighed, shoulders sagging when Barnabas regarded him with concern.

“You appear quite overwhelmed”.

Geralt flinched at his wording. It was yet another example of his complete lack of focus. A mistake that would’ve cost his life on a contract. “Yeah. I’m feeling it”, he admitted with a disappointed groan. He saw the labourers returning from the fields for the midday meal. They carried baskets of fruit, vegetables, and the occasional loaf bread. 

The fruit and vegetables had been plucked from his own neglected gardens. The bread had been purchased from the market in town.

Geralt was bewildered by the fact that he owned a patch of dirt in which he could grow things. Living things that required water, fertiliser, sunlight, gentle hands, and an attentive eye. Geralt ran a tired hand down his face, head shaking. He felt worse than overwhelmed. He had no idea what to do with Corvo Bianco, its people, or even poor patient B.B. 

He was in over his head and he knew it.

“I track, hunt, and kill monsters for a living. I know more about vampires, drowners, and trolls than grapes”.

B.B smiled. He knew a little about the Witcher trade. “You know about herbs do you not?”

Geralt frowned. “Of course. I use ‘em in my potions. Why?”

“Herbs are a type of plant. So are grapevines. I presume you know about fertilisers used to promote a plant’s health and vitality?”

“Herbs are plants not horses, B.B”.

“The example is still relevant”.

Geralt shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose. I dunno how the amount of iron in wyvern shit is relevant to growing grapes. Sure, troll crap is good for getting the herb to grow roots, but horse shit is better for sprouting leaves. I always get a good crop of celandine, arenaria, and fool’s parsley if I plant ‘em on a clump of Roach nuggets”.

“Roach nuggets?” asked B.B.

Geralt nodded to the stable when Roach lifted her tail to defecate.

“Ah”, said B.B when he spied the wet pile tumbling down behind her hooves. “Roach nuggets”.

“Yup. Why buy fertiliser when my horse makes it for me? She’s pretty regular too. Always cropping the verge on the roadside. She turns me a few gold coins when the farmers need a little extra manure”. 

“Do you collect it, sir?”

“If we’re staying somewhere for a few days. Otherwise, I let her take a shit where and when she wants too. It’s easier that way. I don’t always have a shovel with me or a wheel barrow. It’s harder to get near her when I’m covered in drowner guts too”.

“I believe you will find managing the vineyard easier than you think”, remarked B.B with a straight face. He made an offer with a solemn nod. “You already have a decent knowledge of horticulture. Perhaps, I can be of help for whatever else is troubling you”. He stood there, waiting for Geralt to relay his anxieties to him like a proper Master of the House. 

The silence turned awkward when Geralt gaped at him like a startled rabbit. 

“You want to help me. Right. What for?”

“I meant”, elaborated B.B after Geralt blinked owlishly at him for the fifth time. “That I have experience running a vineyard. And that as your majordomo I would be delighted to offer you my insight. If you would have it, sir. I would be glad to help familiarise you with the affairs of the estate”.

“Oh. You mean the vineyard. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“It was implied, sir”. 

“I can’t read minds. Sorry. I’m a simple Witcher not a fop. You’ll need to spell things out for me. Witchers’ aren’t known for subtlety”.

B.B nodded with that gentlemanly air. “My apologies. I will endeavour to be forthright in the future”.

The corner of Geralt’s mouth curved upward in a half-smile. He exhaled a sigh of relief, nodding to himself as if Barnabas-Basil Foulty was an answer to his prayers. “Well”, said Geralt, slapping his knees. “It’s a start. I wouldn’t mind a tour of the estate”.

B.B swept into a bow, nodding. “If you would follow me, sir”.

“It’s Geralt”.

“Sir?”

Geralt got to his feet, gravel crunching underfoot. The worry was still there, still present at the back of his mind. But it was easier to breathe now that he had someone to guide him. Perhaps owning a vineyard in Toussaint wouldn’t be so terrible after all. Geralt chuckled when B.B stuttered at his insistence to break propriety.

“You can call me by my name if you want. There’s no need for formality. I’m not going to throw you in the cellar for daring to say it. Even my daughter calls me Geralt. You can too, I don’t mind”.

B.B protested the very idea of being impolite. “But sir! It goes against Toussaintois custom!”

“I’m not from Toussaint. I’m a northern barbarian. Remember?”

“Some traditions must still be followed to the letter!”

“B.B”, said Geralt with utmost patience. “I’m giving you permission to call me by my first name. It’s not a big deal”.

“I cannot, sir! And it is a big deal!”

“It’s not”.

“It is!”

“Not”, countered Geralt.

“Is!” snapped B.B. 

“Is”.

“Not!”

Barnabas gasped, paling at the gravelly tone of Geralt’s voice. He thought he might’ve erred until the Master of the House smirked. His golden eyes glinted with the slyness of a cat. It took a few panicked palpitations of his heart to realise something important. Geralt of Rivia was teasing him.

“Sir”, grumbled B.B. “It would be best to maintain a level of professionalism around the staff. Thus I would prefer to address you as my superior as is appropriate”.

Geralt chuckled. “You’re good at managing people”.

“I try”.

“All right. Fine. If it makes you happy. Toussaintois tradition stands”.

B.B exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir”.

“Now. How about you show me around the vineyard. Then we can get to know each other. I’d like to see the grounds, meet the staff, and try not to frighten them. Witchers have a reputation for being scary to ordinary folks”.

B.B counted his blessings. He gestured for Geralt follow him. “This way, sir”.

“Thanks, B.B”.

“You are most welcome”.

Geralt took one step then two, then three, and four as B.B led him away from the house and into the heart of the estate. He listened with an attentive ear whilst B.B told him about Corvo Bianco’s history. They were halfway around the grounds when Geralt started to ask questions. B.B was delighted to tell him about the variety grapes he had on the vine. By the time they’d returned to the house Geralt was fascinated.

“Bolius filled up the well with wine?”

“He did, sir”, confirmed B.B. “He threw the most lavish parties. Nobles from far and wide attended many a legendary Bolius Ball”.

“And at one of those parties, a guest jumped into the well to end his life. Got drunk instead, assumed it was a miracle that he survived, and then retired to a monastery”.

“I thought it an interesting piece of folklore”.

Geralt pursed his lips, whistling. “It is. What else did this Bolius do?”

B.B spent the next hour regaling him about the history of the Bolius’. The original owners of Corvo Bianco. Geralt asked him questions. B.B provided answers. It was well into the late afternoon when B.B’s stomach growled.

“Sorry. You must be starving”, apologised Geralt. “I never thought this place would be so interesting. I was expecting an anthill on the arse end of nowhere. I didn’t realise I owned one of the oldest vineyards in Toussaint”.

B.B nodded. “It’s quite all right, sir. Perhaps we should continue the discussion over a meal?”

“Are you asking me to dinner?”

“Why. Yes, I am”.

Geralt grinned from ear to ear. “After you, B.B”.

“Thank you, sir. This way if you please”.

Geralt followed him to the house, nodding when B.B opened the door, bowed, and gestured for him to step inside. He did so without fuss, knowing B.B was a stickler for politesse. Geralt followed his nose to the kitchen. The sight of his flaring nostrils gave B.B an idea. Geralt was a little confused when he was asked such an odd question.

“Sir. Do Witchers have a heightened sense of smell?”

“Yeah. Comes with the mutations. Why?”

B.B rubbed his chin, giving him a thoughtful look. “I have an idea. If you would allow me”. He gestured to the table in the dining room. “Take a seat. I will return with our meal”.

Geralt shrugged his shoulders, the prospect of a full stomach making his mouth water. “Sure”. He took a seat at the table, waiting. A few minutes later B.B returned with two plates, two cups, and a covered basket full of food. Geralt took several appreciative sniffs when B.B set the basket on the table.

“I smell apples, pears, fresh bread, cheese, and is that a leg of ham?”

B.B smiled. “How extraordinary”. He watched Geralt reach for the cloth covering the basket. It was whisked away with a flick of his wrist. B.B was astounded when Geralt took another sniff, nodding. 

“That bread’s made from freshly milled flower. The cheese was aged for about a year. The apples and pears are from the trees in the orchard. That ham was cold smoked for seven hours, and hung for at least four weeks to cure. Smells good”.

Geralt frowned when B.B stared at him.

“You okay?”

“Quite, sir. I know how you can contribute to the vineyard”.

“Huh?” Geralt glanced at the basket of food. He was too hungry to care about grapes, wines, and being a vintner. “Well you can tell me whatever it is you need too while I’m eating”. Geralt produced a utility knife from a sleeve. He cut into the ham with relish, serving B.B before himself.

“Sir! You should serve yourself first! I am a servant!”

“Don’t care. You’re my friend too. And it’s my house. So it’s my rules. You get served first by the Master of the House”.

“But sir!”

“My rules. Remember?” said Geralt as he piled his majordomo’s plate with slabs of succulent smoked meat. “You’re as hungry as I am. Now be quiet and take the ham like a man”. He waggled his eyebrows, chuckling when B.B sighed with resignation. 

“Very well, Sir”.

Geralt piled his own plate next, accepting several slices of bread when B.B offered them. “So. What was this idea you had about me contributing to the vineyard?”

B.B was ready. “Your nose, sir”.

“Huh?”

“Your sense of smell is unparalleled. With such a resource at our disposal. You’d be able to choose what combinations of grapes would be best for each wine. You have no idea how useful that would be come harvest time. Even if we lost half the crop to a bad season, we could still salvage the rest”.

Geralt thought about it for a moment. “So whatever smelt good to me we’d make into wine?"

“Yes”.

“Right. Sounds simple enough. I’m used to sniffing stuff anyway before it goes anywhere near my mouth. Can’t be too trusting these days. I’ve been poisoned before”.

“W-What?” gasped B.B.

Geralt waved a hand at him. 

“It comes with the territory of being of Witcher. But I’m not dead, so they weren’t very good at poisoning people”. He nodded. “Sure. I suppose that could work. You get the grapes, I sniff ‘em, and then we make wine. Sounds easy”.

B.B gaped at him in horror. “Sir?”

Geralt was too busy shovelling a cheese and ham sandwich into his mouth to reply. He made appreciative noises as he chewed. He smacked his lips when he took that first swallow. It was heaven. Geralt savoured the taste of of it on his tongue.

“Man that’s good”.

B.B grimaced when he took a second bite. It was like watching a cat trying to swallow a boulder. Geralt was all but shoving the remains of his sandwich in his face. Barnabas could see the crumbs in his beard, the saliva dribbling out the corner of his mouth. This particular Witcher had terrible table manners.

“Sir”, called B.B.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full”.

Geralt nodded, mouth closing as he chewed.

B.B shuddered when he swallowed.

“What’s that face for?”

“You’re drooling, sir”.

“Oh”. Geralt snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

B.B groaned. “Sir! You should use a napkin!”

“Don’t have any. I told you. I’m a Witcher not a fop”.

“Clearly”.

Geralt grinned. “Are you giving me cheek, B.B?”

Barnabas-Basil lifted his nose in the air. “I am, sir. You have terrible table-manners”.

Geralt smirked. “You know what? We’re gonna get along just fine”. He flapped a hand in the air. “Ignore the beard. I know it’s got food stuck in it. Now, come on. Eat, B.B. You did promise to tell me more about the vineyard too”.

B.B groaned in resignation. It was going to take years to teach this Witcher proper etiquette. He could already feel the headache building behind his temples. Perhaps the Duchess of Toussaint had been remiss in her appointment. Could Corvo Bianco and the populace of Toussaint survive a Witcher-turned-vintner? For the sake of his countrymen, B.B hoped so.

“Of course, sir. Now where were we?”

“The guy breaking his legs in the well”.

“I’ve told you that story”.

“So tell me again”, urged Geralt. “It’s a good story. Funny”.

“The fall into the well broke the man’s legs”, said B.B.

“He still got pissed on free booze”.

“Sir!”

“What? The guy fell into a well filled with wine! He drank it to dull the pain! Ergo! The guy was sozzled B.B!”


End file.
